hand.
“I finished it,” he announced triumphantly, meeting Hester’s eyes for her approval. Then he looked over toward the stove. “Supper yet?”
“Not yet,” she answered, keeping her face composed with difficulty. “You have chores to do. Then when you’ve finished it’ll be sausages and bubble and squeak.”
His grin was enormous. He glanced at Monk just to be sure for himself that he was all right, then he turned and left. They heard his feet clattering out into the scullery and the backyard to sweep and clean up.
“So much for safety of heart,” Hester said, standing up again. “I’d better put the bubble and squeak on, and get on with the pudding, or it won’t be cooked in time.”
The following morning, Hester visited the office of a man she had known in her nursing days in the army, thirteen years earlier. She had seen him two or three times since then, and she hoped he would remember her.
Dr. Winfarthing was a large man in all respects. He was tall and rotund; his hair was thick, auburn touched now with gray, and flying all over the place. His features were generous and he regarded the world benignly through a pair of spectacles that always looked as if they were about to slide off his nose.
“Of course I remember you, girl,” he said cheerfully. “Best nurse I know, and most trouble. Who have you upset now?”
She took no offense whatever. The remark was perfectly justified, and from him, almost a compliment. When she had returned from the Crimea she had had high and totally unrealistic hopes of reforming the nursing profession. She was impatient with delay, even more so with those who clung to the old because it was familiar, even if it was wrong. When she thought people’s lives were at stake, she had not even tried to be tactful.
“No one just at the moment,” she replied with a rueful smile.
Winfarthing waved expansively to offer her a seat in his spacious, chaotic office. As always it was crowded with books, many of them not even remotely connected with medicine. Indeed, some of them were of poetry, some fairy stories that had amused him or pleased his imagination over the years.
“Should I flatter myself that you have come simply to see how I am?” he asked with a crooked smile. “Ah, this will be good fun-let’s see how will you answer now, without hurting my feelings, but still retaining a semblance of grace.”
“Dr. Winfarthing!” she protested. “I-”
“Need help with something,” he finished for her, still smiling. “Is it medical, or political?”
The question was so accurate, it reminded her just how well they had known each other, and how transparent she was to him.
“I’m not sure,” she said candidly. “Did you know Dr. Joel Lambourn?”
The light vanished from Winfarthing’s face and suddenly it was crumpled and sad, his years sitting heavily on him. “I did,” he replied. “And I liked him. He was a remarkably decent man. You’d have liked him, too, even if he had exasperated you. Although, come to think of it, he probably wouldn’t have. You really aren’t any wiser than he was, poor soul.”
Hester was taken aback. Winfarthing had always been able to do that to her. He was one of the kindest men she knew, yet his perception was scalpel-sharp, and if he liked you, he had no hesitation in speaking frankly. His trust in her was a compliment, as if they were equals, and pretense had no place in their communication.
“You knew him quite well,” she concluded.
He smiled, knowing that she had evaded his comment on her, and done it with a degree of grace. “He was the sort of man that if he had any respect for you, he allowed you to know him honestly,” he replied, blinking several times, oddly embarrassed by his emotion. “I am greatly flattered that he liked me. It was the best compliment he could have offered. Worth far more than telling me I was a great doctor-which I’m not. And don’t argue with me, my dear. My medical knowledge is adequate. Perhaps a little outdated now. It is my understanding of people that you admire, and my ability to get the best out of them.”
She met his eyes and nodded. He deserved the truth from her in that also. “Tell me more about Dr. Lambourn,” she said.
He pushed his hand through his hair, leaving it wilder than before. “Why? What difference does it make to you now? He’s gone.”
“Did you know his wife as well?” Again she sidestepped the question.
“I met her,” he said, studying Hester’s face to find what she was really seeking. “Very fine woman, handsome. Again, why? I can keep asking as long as you can keep dodging me, and you know that.”
“She doesn’t believe he took his own life,” she replied.
“Another one of your ‘lost causes’?” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I find it hard to believe, too, but they say the evidence is there. What else would it be? No one climbs a bare hill alone at night and cuts their wrists by accident, girl. You know that as well as I do.”
She felt foolish, but she would not give up. If Winfarthing did not believe Dinah, then who would? “How important was the research Dr. Lambourn was doing into opium sales and use?” she asked. “Should there be a pharmaceutical bill to control opium?”
He frowned. “Is that what he was doing? For whom? He would be in favor of such a bill, of course.”
“Are you?” she pressed.
“I’m insulted that you need to ask!” He said it sharply, but there was no anger in his face. “But it must be based on facts, not on religious or financial interests. Opium, in one form or another, is the only way most people have of dealing with pain. We all know that. God knows how many people get through the day on it-or the night.” He said it with a heaviness of heart.
“As far as I know,” she said, “what he wanted was for all remedies containing opium, which I know is hundreds-”
“At least! If not thousands,” he interrupted.
“Should be regularized and labeled as to quantity and suitable dosage,” she finished.
“Ah,” he sighed. “Poor Lambourn. Heavy vested interests against him. Lot of money in the import of opium. Even some of the best family fortunes are built on it, you know?”
“Enough to try to crush Dr. Lambourn’s report?”
Winfarthing’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what you think? Political pressure? You’re wrong.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “Joel Lambourn wouldn’t have been persuaded by any man to cut his own wrists. He might have been a political innocent, but he was a first-class scientist, and far more important than that, he loved his family. He would never have left them that way.”
He blinked again. “He had two daughters, you know, Marianne and Adah. Very proud of them.” He looked at her almost angrily.
She looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Reminding me of something I was trying to forget? I know it. Don’t treat me like a fool.” He sniffed. “Why did you come, anyway? Is this about Dinah Lambourn?”
“No.” She looked up at him. “Actually it started about Zenia Gadney.”
“Who the devil is Zenia Gadney?”
“The woman who was found murdered and mutilated on Limehouse Pier, over a week ago.”
“What has that to do with Lambourn? Or opium?”
“Nothing to do with opium, so far as we know,” Hester replied. “She bought the occasional penny twist, but so does half the population. Dr. Lambourn knew her quite well, well enough to go and see her once a month, and to support her financially.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Winfarthing said instantly. “Whoever said that is either malicious or a lunatic, or both.”
“It was his sister, Amity Herne,” she answered. “But only after a little pressing. His wife agreed that she too was aware of it, but not of where Mrs. Gadney lived.”
“Mrs.? Was the woman married?” he said quickly. “Or is that a courtesy title?”
“Largely courtesy, I think, although people around her neighborhood thought she might be a widow.”
“Supported by Joel Lambourn? A colleague’s wife fallen on hard times?” Winfarthing still looked incredulous.
